Subject: Re: Mnemosyne: thinking poetization
Date: Thu, 9 Aug 2001 19:41:36 -0400


Dear List <OE. List, lust, desire. Lists, OE. bordering enclosures of
jousting>,

The winds are blowing slightly of late as the horizon fades into distance
and I'm asking myself 'what' is it that amazes and enthralls us as we hear
reticently the self-sheltering withdrawal of beyng where there is a
belonging-together of call and hearing, an intertwinning embrace of  subject
and object? Surely it's a desire but how do we know that it is true and
that however the horizon makes its shinning appearance in the veils of
imagery opening passages between the visible and invisible (or everything
that eludes our sense-certainty); that that, is a true guide, a sincere
desire? It seems like here it's a question of  'something' being compelling
such as a commanding imperative would be, a hoary soundless voice that would
be the limit of an incipient birth of poematization such that the "I" that
becomes the hollow reed of songs flowing with the motion of unknown clouds
never comes to expression exactly but remains suspended such that it really
feels the pulsating throb of a great desire which is a flame that feeds on
itself, that goes through contractions only, and so, tempers, sweetens the
bitterness of refusal. So I was going on like this and she said, "You see,
when you answer an order, as Wittengstein has taught us,  you don't go
around looking for reasons why you should follow that order, no, you just
capitulate, you surrender blindly and without question and hesitation you
know the formula and how its goes on like an insistent melody that you are
obligated to add a refrain to. There is no point struggling to get out, you
know you will not stop reading these fading slips and their clear-obscure
meaning which you vainly try to clarify and somehow make their gyrating
aimless meandering into a straight line to suit your taste for geometry."
The more I try to struggle, the more I sink. It's like trying to get out of
quicksand!


The astringency or bitterness of refusal is sweetened by a rule of life when
one thinks  from the future bones of one's own grave, that is, with
resoluteness such that there is a constant firmness of the heart, and that,
do to a contraction and only that stills, attracts the restless flight of an
object of desire gaining its favour so to speak, another little kiss... ? A
succesful image then interrupts the principle of a consumptive pleasure in
its ability to evoke an evanescence, a fading away or dying of consciousness
thus renouncing authorial intentionality or the mastery of creation. In the
dying away of consciousness in order precisely to live there is a
capitulating surrender and that checks any expansiveness, any composition of
a subject and its attributes, for example. Then, the "I" remains in the
instance of discourse, on the verge of speech in a sweet foundering...

Now we can read the philosophical gist of a twelfth century poet by the name
of Arnaut Daniel:

".... it [love] keeps me happy and fine
with a favour(pleasure) with which it raised me;
but it will never pass through my throat,
for fear that she gets gloomy,
since I still feel the flame
of Love, that orders me
not to spread my mind:
I swear it,
frightened,
because I've seen many a love
deleted by its fame."

There is nothing here suggesting the communication of a message to a public
group of commentators who would decipher or read what is essentially outside
language. Initiation into philosophical literature, that is, into the
exaltation of a love of wisdom, interrupts any possibility of communication.
Words and even songs are withdrawn because the sweetness that is
characteristic of a certain feeling  for philosophy just can't be described
by words. The poet above is commanded by the feeling of a flame or the
intensity that is there when intentionality is withdrawn. Poematization is
then hortatory, that is, it is a compelling incitement whose imperative or
rule commands self-restraining delays, imagistic play or echoes that
interrupt the expansive principle of pleasure which is the expression of
astringent bitterness swelling the sails and troubling the waters of the
sea. The answer to this vocation and this magnetic chain of tradition is an
echo where real communication happens only because there is nothing between
us... just attentive admiration... without the obsfucation of the screen of
a referential network of intentions busy aiming at this and that spinning
cobwebs of discourse deliberately determining the ongoing reign of
chatterboxes articulating endless comments and judgements resting on nothing
but illusions.

Gulio










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